Cut out on my feet –
cigarette burn rounds–
from city streets
that used to greet me
with imitation fireflies
and flights of fancy –
dizzying and glorious.
Now cracking and porous
my heels no longer
enough to support
–me –

Lo, lost, in this city
I knew –
So well –
It’s a hell

from the second you left
familiar became terror
and all I could want
is to escape –
walk away searing
in the heat –
I burn my feet
on the streets
that used to love me.

The Lacklustre Creation

Have you ever had a feeling where it it feels like somewhere inside you creativity is sloshing around, boiling, foaming from your lips? Although all that’s coming up is just that foam, just the burn of stomach acid as it wants to burst from your orifices. Leaving you with a scrunched up face and a bitter taste and a deep sense of dissatisfaction with the very thing that your own body has created.

This little pool is filling up, getting fatter, faster, flooding every part of your being but it’s just not going anywhere. Frustrating! It’s not mellifluously pouring out onto a canvas, or onto a page, the way that you wish it would. Everything you try to do with this supercharged sense of creation just falls flat. It pales in comparison to the grandeur of things that you’ve seen before. Your ideas strut around on the page in their false importance, you’ve chosen to put them down on paper and try to call them pretty. It’s not that you want a masterpiece, but you’d prefer something that at least resembles the same sort of power as the creativity thumping inside you.

It’s not that there’s a lack of inspiration, in fact you look out the window on your train ride home and the music you’re listening to seems to melt perfectly into the scene of the sparkling city lights; which in their subtlety are able to take your breath away for a moment. Yet at the same time they disgust you in their arrogant cliché, a big ball of “been there done that.”

They’re just not enough, your work is just not enough, you’re just not enough. Even the little you manage to scratch down in your little notebook manages to disappoint you in its brevity, because in its brevity you find the gargantuan vacuum of lack.

… you know that feeling?